Are Tadpoles Allowed to Love?

Lying on the floor (again), I watch demons meet pleasure growing and expanding
though my pelvis.  What is buried here?  Is this sexual?

Noon is in the air.

I want the way I love to be unrestrained by archaic morality.  But the dilemma has existed since I was young:  How do I reconcile the yearning to break my heart against the beauty of this world with the voice that threatens me with unlovability if I do?  I am wrong.  I am three years old and the way I love is bad.

The sun beats down on my body. My nipples are erect.  Now my identity has been trapped in thinking sex is the only way to love as big as I do, that sexuality has to exist in a certain form.  I must be a young woman - blond - american - beautiful. I must be porn star sexy, smart sexy, post pubescent katrina sexy...to love like this.

Do caterpillars love?  Are tadpoles allowed to love?

The way I love - an omnidirectional hug desirous of merging, putting our bodies in touch, where we can togetherfeel the pleasures and pain of our anatomy.  Stretching physical sensation.  Is this sexual?

What is sexuality? Where does it begin?

As I look at the reflection of my naked body in this computer screen, I feel shackled to its
form.  Strong limbs, smooth skin, cheerful breasts framing my bellybutton.  The buds of fear swell; open.

What will happen to how I love when those breasts sag down, lying pancake flat
against a saggy midsection? How will I love if I do not carry the correct configuration? Three years old and I had to wait for the development of this fleshape so that my love would be worth something - so that it could be expressed, accepted, acceptable.

Of course I'm attached to it.

So now I practice dying.  Lying on the floor, typing at my computer, hugging you - I die into myself.  I go beyond the frontiers of form.  Is this sexual?

It Doesn't Matter

It has been over a month of growth and death.  I feel the sting of stretching myself.  Staying with my parents for this week, a week in the wake of weeks stretched by French wine and romance and a desert explosion.  Wanderlust.  Wonder lost.

Wonder banged.  I feel the real me going to school again, growing and watching for cannonballs.  I keep dropping them on myself.  All this pressure to do something, to count for something, to finish something.

When this anxiety slinks in, I remember a thing that happened (continues to happen), three weeks ago following a dusty birthdeath in Nevada.  It is best described as a dream, but to call it that would be misleading.  I might also call it a vision or a cogent hallucination.

I was sleeping on a friend's couch in Orange County.  I woke early, the soft cushions unfit for my frenzied tossing and turning.  Unable to re-doze, I decided to meditate for a while.  I call it meditation, but that connotes an activity that requires effort. Really, I just lie on my back and feel myself existing.  (Sometimes I fall asleep.)

I did this.  I dropped in.  Immediately I entered a lucid dream state.  Waking into my subconscious (or wherever I happened to be), I quickly noticed another being with me.  Turning to face her head on, I found myself in the company of what I perceived to be a goddess creature.  She appeared like a gelfling from The Dark Crystal - subtle, pixie-like adjustments to the human form.  I was instantly thrilled to be in her presence.  I could tell she was powerful, the incarnation of greatness, the one who might be able to answer some of my questions.  I went for it. 

"What should I do?  What is my purpose?" I asked her.  The volume of my voice surprised me.  It echoed throughout the room and I was sure that my friends sleeping on the couch adjacent mine, would wake and assume I was slumbertalking.

The deity melted backwards, dissolved into the walls, the room, the very space around us.  She surfaced periodically, rearranging random table objects into a face, pressing a form against the patterned wallpaper, unfolding in a multitude of expressions.  Her presence laughed at me.  There was no verbal response, but the air itself was thick with her humor.  Who do you think you are?  It seemed to say.  Why would you ever consider such a question important?  Ha.  How ridiculous! 

I remained still, despite the waves of deep breath humility pumping through me.  After a few moments, she surfaced again in the cluttered floor and spoke aloud.

"It doesn't matter," she chuckled, evanescent. 

"It doesn't matter what you do...as long as you're laughing more than you're not."

I woke up.  I couldn't breathe at first.  I woke up and (for a little while) stopped taking myself so seriously.